


Armor's Burden

by Fowluu



Category: Dragalia Lost (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24944833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fowluu/pseuds/Fowluu
Summary: The night before the New Alberian army are to invade the Dyrenell Empire, Ranzal has some thoughts about the reality of a war like this. He finds someone else who feels the same.
Relationships: Malka/Ranzal (Dragalia Lost)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Armor's Burden

**Author's Note:**

> All spoilers to Chapter 14 are kept vague, but there are still some general spoilers like enemies/characters who appear
> 
> pls stan Malka Dragalia Lost

The creeping eminence of a fight was something you learned to feel, as a mercenary. Knowing when the next big scrap was gonna crop up is an important way to stay alive in a seedy business, keep the wrong end of a spear out of your side, and all the better to prepare to keep the current patron happy. Most of those old guys really liked when fights weren’t just won, but easily swept aside, taking no more time to resolve than a thorn in the side, and that kind of fight took planning, not reactionary measures. Maybe it was something you learned with time on the job, or maybe it was just something all mercenary had because the ones who didn’t would end up dead within months. 

Ranzal usually tried to describe it as something he felt in his gut, kinda low, a kind of unrest that twisted and writhed in all the wrong places, between blood vessels and organs soft and all too vulnerable to the blades it warned against. It was one of the only times he almost felt like he didn’t want to eat food. Almost. He'd tell the greener mercenaries it was probably just something they ate, to calm their nerves, to focus them away from the bitterness that came with the taste of fear. Nothing to worry about, nothing to get anxious about.

But, he knew, a survival instinct that was honed with experience about what was to come over the horizon in the following hours, or minutes, or seconds. It wasn’t the most precise method on the when, but the knowledge of the threat alone was definitely there. He was older, grown into this business, more apt to keep the younger ones safe, than should they know about the intentions of the cold feeling in their belly. Maybe he was doing them a disservice, coddling them, instead of letting them know the grim realities of mercenary work.

That little bit of hesitation never really stopped him from doing it. 

It was something he felt tonight, settling itself a nice home between his stomach and intestines, after most everyone else had already gone to sleep. But he knew they felt it too, it didn't take a trained mercenary to know the danger of crossing enemy lines, to the Dyrenell Empire, to confront something so vile and inhuman as The Other. A layman would know that was a dangerous idea, but an expert knew the fine details of what the encounter could hold. Even though he was no longer a mercenary, that training stayed with him. A natural reaction to that gut feeling, to be filled with adrenaline, to be ready to fight, to stay alive.

It made it impossible to sleep, so here he sat, prodding the dying orange embers in their campfire with the toe of his boot, picking up stains of charcoal he would have to wash away the next day. Or, well, he’d get to it eventually.

Ranzal was always drawn to the need to protect other people from the reality of battle, like those younger mercenaries, not yet to understand that the feeling they felt sinking in their stomach was the whisper of death behind the next corner, ready to rip out their flesh with sharpened fangs. Being a commander now did nothing to quell that desire, if anything perhaps it made it worse. Gave him a real responsibility for these people, something he before had always tried to run away from, when he was younger, less mature. But with the size of the New Alberian army, Ranzal knew, with dread, that there was no way they could all be kept safe.

The reality of war was harsh. He did not wish to see his friends confront such terrors.

He was beginning to think maybe a quick walk would help drive the remaining dregs of adrenaline out of his system, so he could finally rest and not be more than a dead weight tomorrow when the time came, when he heard the distinct sound of tempered metal plates clash together, stark and brutal in the otherwise clear nightfall, and felt it all flare up again in full, with blood roaring in his ears and tightly wound muscles in his legs.

Surely the Imperial army wouldn't be so brazen as to launch an attack on their side of the border, in the dead of night? As a commander, Ranzal wouldn't believe it, something so cheap and cowardly. As a mercenary, he knows it would be an excellent opportunity to get the drop on your opponents, and guarantee only their blood was spilled.

Ranzal knew he was in a bad spot, with neither axe nor sword at his side. Both were set with the rest of the army's weapons and armor, not more than a few yards away. What's worse, he recognized the metallic sound he heard as coming from the direction of their supplies. An ambush upon their weaponry, maybe, to leave them defenseless in the following attack? It wouldn’t be a bad idea to avoid bloodshed at all, by making their weaponry unusable, or stealing them away, forcing them to either turn back with their tail between their legs, or walk directly into a bloodbath, exposed and vulnerable.

With blood thrumming in his ears, Ranzal attempted to approach the location as quietly as possible. He was a big guy, not built for stealth, so he wasn’t terribly certain of that plan. But if he was lucky, it would just be one or two people, sent to sabotage them like he thought. Easily dispatched on his own, even if he had no weapon. His hands were not unknown to the concept of tightening around a vulnerable throat, squeezing down on blood vessels, in desperate circumstances.

When he reached their supply storage, all of the fight drained out of him in a near instant, leaving him feeling more like an extremely anxious, deflated balloon, unused adrenaline leaving his fingers shaking. For there in the little clearing, sandwiched between racks holding gauntlets and chest plates, was a very familiar silver-haired man, looking particularly erratic. Not wearing his usual gaudy gold armor, abandoned in favor of the heavy leather of a forge apron.

"Malka," Ranzal sighed, noticed how the man nearly jumped two feet in the air at the sudden intrusion, staring up at him with round eyes, clutching desperately to the armor piece in his hands, like it would be taken from him. In that moment he reminded Ranzal of a spooked grey cat, with his hair standing up on end.

The purple under his eyes reminded him of bruises.

"Scared the piss outta me, I thought you were someone tryin’ to sabotage us. You should be in bed, not gettin' me all worked up."

At the familiar scolding, Malka frowned, looking more like his usual self in that single narrowing of eyes and furrowing of his brow. He immedietly set back to work, and for a moment Ranzal thought the man was just going to completely ignore him. It would not be the first time, Malka was not the easiest guy to talk to in normal circumstances, let along when he was deep into his work. Sometimes Ranzal thought he could do anything short of actually touching the guy and not manage to get his attention when he was working. 

Despite this, he challenged easily, falling into the ebb and flow of their relationship, the push and pull of stubbornness, "Yet here you are, also awake, and bothering me while I'm working."

"It was my turn to keep watch," Ranzal lied, and judging by the indifferent snort, Malka did not care to call him out if he knew he was lying.

Ranzal leaned against one of the sturdy racks of weaponry to watch Malka fiddle with the armor on the ground in front of him. He appeared to be adjusting one of the straps that would be used to hold the chest plate in place, but something about it looked all wrong. Twisted in some places, loose in others, all together too tight across the width. It was simple stuff, Ranzal had seen Malka make far more complicated adjustments before within minutes, hardly using an ounce of his talent as a master smith. Something like this would never give him pause before.

When he looked closer, he could see the way Malka's hands were down-right fidgeting with the strap. Little movements, jerky ones, doing little to hide the way his fingers shook, as if he could hardly maintain grip on the offending piece of leather. He appeared to be unable to decide which problem to tackle first, and the uncertainty was simply compounding, switching back and forth between solutions that clashed with one another when done in the wrong order, making the overall problem worse, with bigger knots, and crooked buckles. 

Ranzal recalled Malka used to forge armor for an army, before joining the Halidom, and before going on his weird quest for the perfect mana-resistant metal blend that could also stand up to physical punishment. He remembered how solemn the normally boastful man was when he told him that story, about working field repair after battles, to patch up all the bloody holes that were rend in metal he forged with his own hands. The sorrow of realizing the people he put in those suits were dead, due to what he took on as his own fault, his own burden of incompetence. He wondered if Malka could feel it too, that impending dread, that undeniable knowledge of blood soaked, red grass, the fragrance of death.

The sound of skin against metal was enough to startle him, Malka having chosen to strike the object of his current frustration with a closed fist, probably doing far more damage to his own hand than he ever could to the armor, forged strong with Malka’s own techniques. He studied the way Malka pushed his fingers through his hair, the way his chest rose and fell with heavy, irritated gasps. When the armorer reached for the breast plate to pick it back up once more, to probably mangle the poor thing more, Ranzal placed his boot upon its edge, preventing him from doing so.

He earned quite the glare for that.

Knowing Malka was not one to listen to typical reasoning (needing to eat and sleep to live, for example), he tried instead, "You'll be no use t’anyone if yer so ragged tired you can't make a simple armor repair. Go sleep."

Looking away, Malka choose to try and wrench the armor piece out from under his foot. He bared down a little harder, knowing Malka wouldn't be able to compete with his weight. Malka said himself, he was trained to work in the forge, not to fight, his strength was lacking compared to a long-standing mercenary. As his frustration mounted, he instead turned to hitting Ranzal's leg instead, as if that would encourage him to move. He chose to endure the display, until Malka was doing nothing more than making mild attempts to shove his foot away from his work.

Even now, it was apparent his fingers trembled.

"People will die."

Said quiet enough, Ranzal was almost unsure if he had heard it. Like it was something he never wanted to say in the first place, especially not to him. It had taken weeks of misunderstandings and arguments to get Malka to open up to him once before, it was not unlike the man to be unsure about emotional sharing. He prodded for more, for confirmation.

"If my armor isn't good enough, people will _die_. We are marching directly into the gaping mouth of a lion, don't you see! I don't want to see that again. I don't- I don't have time to rest."

Ranzal snorted, clearly drawing the ire of his companion, who finally looked up from the ground only to fix him with a glare. Behind the cold expression, Ranzal could see a shine in the dim light of night that reminded him of the start of tears, born of frustration, of _helplessness_.

He pressed on, "Someone dyin’ has nothing to do with your work. Hell, dozens of us are only alive ‘cause of it." Malka opened his mouth to argue, getting cut off by the gentle nudge Ranzal pressed into his side with his boot. Probably left a stain of charcoal from the fire pit, that he would be scolded for later, once noticed. "Stop it. You wouldn't blame Ramona's weapons if someone lost their blade in battle, would ya?"

"Of course not."

"Then stop acting like every death is personally on yer shoulders. No one thinks that." Ranzal took his foot off the chest plate, now pressed deeply into the soft ground, blades of grass sprouting up around its edges now like a halo. Malka made no move to pick it up.

"No one wants our friends to die. We all bare that burden, together. Not just you."

Malka told him once that he misjudged him, assumed he cared little for his armor due to its state of disrepair, only to later realize the poor state was caused by how much Ranzal cared, how hard he tried to protect his friends. How readily he threw himself in front of danger to keep them safe. He did the very same to protect Malka, once. Surely he remembered this, would understand they both share the same, desperate feelings when it came to keeping their friends safe. Neither of them were the type to sit idly by while someone could get hurt. Yet somehow, it was also a form of contention between them.

When Malka stood, Ranzal expected him to simply walk away, to play the cold and uninterested guy he usually was when it came to whatever Ranzal had to say to him. Call him a brute, or remind him of all the money he still owed him for all his free armor repairs. Instead, he found himself face to face with the shorter man, able to take in how he looked. The haphazard way his hair was tucked behind his ears to keep it out of the way, the lines creased under his eyes, filled in purple and red. Ranzal guessed he must have been at this late night work for days now, trying to perfect armor at night while they marched forward during the day. He must be exhausted.

Deep in thought, he was startled when he felt Malka's hands on him, and worried for a second the armorer was going to let out his frustrations on him again. He realized quickly Malka was pulling at the straps on the armor protecting his shoulder. Realized even more quickly he was pulling the damn thing _tight_.

" _Ow_ , ow, hey!" He made a weak attempt to wiggle away, before Malka found some other part of his armor to focus on instead. Ranzal said a silent prayer, and subjected himself to Malka's nit-picking for the moment. He supposed he could tolerate the behavior for a little while, if it would in the end help him calm the frantic man down and get him to bed. In the mean time he chose to tease him about it, watching him work, "Didn't think you cared about little ol’ me too."

In return, a strap around his leg was deliberately tightened hard against his skin, pinching, making him yelp. He supposes he deserved that.

"Of course I do," Malka replied, loosening the offending piece back into a proper position. "Your business alone could pay all my bills."

"It's not that bad," Ranzal said, just before Malka fixed him with a look that said, yes, _it really is that bad_. "Alright, damn, I dent a few armor plates every now and then!"

He noticed Malka was no longer fidgeting with the fastenings of his armor, or checking its state of wear, for any potential flaws before the day tomorrow. Instead, his hands were just resting, a little inward of each shoulder. One thumb traced the seam of his shirt. His hands weren't shaking, anymore. He was quiet, waiting, for something Ranzal wasn't entirely sure of. It felt like a moment where he should have realized the importance of something, but was just unable to grasp the gravity, as it fluttered just outside of his reach.

“You’re not wearing the armor I made for you.” 

Ranzal was unsure if the tone was disappointed or concerned, or perhaps a mixture of both. Sure, Malka had seemed proud of the armor he had made for Ranzal’s new role as a commander for the New Alberian army, but he didn’t see the importance of it now. Maybe it was the comfort of knowing he built that armor himself, was more confident in its metals, than the old armor Ranzal wore today, barely up-kept from his mercenary days. 

“Yea, Euden should have all the glory leading tomorrow and all that, don’tcha think? I’m just another soldier fer now.” 

Malka hummed a response, but Ranzal got the impression he was not satisfied with the answer. He was tracing the outline of a long, clawed scratch in his shoulder guard. Malka had repaired this armor many times over, but Ranzal was unsure if that increased his confidence in it, or decreased it, due to the frequency it needed repair. If he was better with words, maybe he would have something to say to try and comfort him. Maybe if he was the kind of guy, he could spit blind promises that he would never break his armor ever again, and he wouldn’t get hurt, no one would get hurt. And everything would be alright.

Malka spoke,

"You will be safe for me, won't you? I'll be fighting on the lines with you, tomorrow. Don't disappoint me."

Ranzal grinned, satisfied with the unusually caring words from the armorer, a small amount of honest concern for his well-being.

"You know me! I'm always comin’ out alright!"

Maybe he was that kind of guy.

* * *

Losing the rest of their companions in the miasma-like fog around the castle during the battle was terrifying. For two simple reasons:

One, the loss in numbers had put them in a dangerous situation, subject to ambush, to the potential of being picked off. That was the intention of anyone trying to split apart an army. Trim the numbers, in divisions, smaller and smaller, bite-sized pieces easy to dispatch, until none remained. He was well aware of the potential of that reality, even as they had stood in empty castle walls, seeming to house no enemies of any kind out to get them.

Two, he was damn terrified for the rest of them. Knowing what he did, he was worried the rest of them out there would be the ones to get picked off by whatever trap the empire had laid for them, and that when this was all said and done, even if in victory, they'd leave the castle gates to see the corpses of their friends.

He wouldn't admit to a third reason, but personally, he was worried about Malka, too. He knew the man was capable, but the reality of the situation was the man was not trained to be a soldier, and would not as easily be able to defend himself. The night before, Malka had expressed his worry for Ranzal’s well being, but now he was trapped out there, and Ranzal was stuck in here, and that uncertainty was scary. 

He thinks maybe he should have expressed more concern for Malka's safety, too.

It wasn't until everything had settled down, with The Other, with Volk, with Zethia, that they even had the chance to meet up with the rest of their people. Quite a few were injured, he could not ignore the red that streaked spots of the stone floors, trails between the corpses of fiends and dropped weapons, but most appeared to be alright, not facing grave injures. He could see a few motionless figures wrapped in white, gathered in a central location, and he knew they sustained losses. For a cause many would be proud of, surely, but it did not quell the sick feeling in his stomach. Many of the people in the courtyard seemed joyous, sensing a victory.

They were right, in a way. The castle was theirs. Sol Alberia had been claimed once more by those right to have it. There was just a certain loss that made the victory bittersweet.

Ranzal found Malka sitting against one of the castle walls, lance leaned up beside him, surprisingly not already elbow deep in armor needing repairs from blunt swords and fiend claws. He realized it was because the armorer had one of his arms wrapped up heavily in a sling, and a nasty set of splits in his own armor, like a half opened peel. He appeared to be struggling to take off his badly damaged armor with the use of only one good arm.

Malka shrugged when he noticed him looking. "Manticore," he said simply, like it was no big deal, continuing his attempt to wiggle out of the breastplate without cutting himself on the now sharp damaged edge. 

Ranzal knelt at his side to take over removing the piece, and surprisingly met with no resistance. Malka probably accepted by now his inability to take the armor off by himself, so he was willing to take the help, even if from Ranzal. Internally, Ranzal was simply happy that Malka was not one of those wrapped in white further away. “Has a healer already seen you?” 

Malka shook his head no, and Ranzal noted the bindings around his arm were rather makeshift, looking to be scraps rather than clean bandages. When he removed the armor and left the man with only his black shirt and leggings, he could see the distinct wetness of additional wounds along his shoulder, bleeding, still uncovered by any sort of makeshift covering, as they had been encased by broken armor previously. When Ranzal moved to stand to fetch someone to tend to their armorer, he found himself stopped by a hand gripped around his wrist, tight, but gentle. Like he could pull away, if he wanted to.

“It’s not that bad. Other people need more help than me. You-” Malka hesitated, pulled a little on his arm, as if that was enough to convey his intentions. At the confused stare he got in return, he huffed, annoyed. “Just, stay here with me, won’t you?” 

After the hasty admission, Malka released his arm quickly, as if embarrassed by his needy words and actions. In fact, he was almost certain there was a growing warmth to his face, reddening the color. “I-if you’re not busy, I mean. I can assess the damage I’m sure you’ve done to your armor so it will be less of a pain for me to repair later-!” Excuses, and poor ones at that. 

Ranzal grinned, and sat against the wall next to him, on his non wounded side. Without warning, gently pulled him over to lean against him, arm wrapped around him carefully to avoid any of his visible wounds. Malka did not protest, but sat stiff as a board at his side, staring resolutely ahead. Ranzal could almost hardly feel the guy breathe he was so tense. 

“I’m glad yer alright,” he said, to break the tension, and frankly, to be honest. Seeing the armorer was okay was a relief he did not expect, washing over him like cool water to put out the uncertain fire in his belly, soothing his anxieties. He did not realize how worried he was about Malka in particular until faced with the reality that something terrible could have happened to him during this invasion, that he could have been more seriously wounded, or killed. It was not the type of worry that came with the concern that they would no longer have a master armorer on their side to perform repairs for their army, but rather something else, a little more personal, a little more emotional. Not something someone like Ranzal was ready to acknowledge. 

“...Yea,” Malka relaxed against him, as if those words alone were enough to cut all the strings keeping him so taut. He even went so far as to scoot a little closer, and lean his head against his shoulder. He almost appeared to be ready to sleep, and Ranzal figured he likely was still exhausted from all the work in the days previous. “I’m glad you’re alright too.”

Distantly, Ranzal thought that maybe he was starting to realize whatever that feeling was he was meant to notice the night before that he just couldn’t grasp. An importance in their relationship that maybe he did not see before. A mutual care for one another, beyond all the bickering, that had always been there, just not acknowledged. It made him want to hold the other man tightly to his side and not let go. 

He thinks, just maybe, this budding _something_ could be fostered into something good.

“Your armor repair is gonna be expensive, also.”

“One-time discount?”

“Absolutely not.”


End file.
